


words found in flowers

by orbitalknight



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Language of Flowers, Love Confessions, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:27:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26860624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbitalknight/pseuds/orbitalknight
Summary: The last time Aymeric invited the Warrior of Light to Borel Manor for a meal, their time together was interrupted by a certain Scion of the Seventh Dawn having the misfortune of being shot with a poisoned arrow.As he invites her for another evening in his company, it is his most sincere wish that no such emergency occurs a second time.(for @glouptidoo on Twitter)
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	words found in flowers

**Author's Note:**

> For @glouptidoo on Twitter. It was an absolute joy to work on this piece!  
> Wishing Loon many flowers and sweet treats on her journey! (I'll have to say hello in-game sometime!)

Aymeric de Borel had never struggled with words, save on three occasions. 

He’d given several speeches: to dragons, the Temple Knights, and more than once to the Eorzean alliance. That the people of Ishgard had not yet tired of his voice was something of a blessing. He did not agonize over his speechwriting, not due to a lack of care, but based upon the purely romantic notion that if his words came from a place of sincerity, from the heart, as it were, then he need not worry overmuch about their delivery. And here were those selfsame occasions upon which speech had failed: in a confrontation with his father, where all romantic notions had fallen in the face of centuries of tradition and bloodshed, in pleading Ishgard’s case to the great wyrm Hraesvelgr, and now, staring at the blank sheet of parchment in front of him. 

It was a letter. It was a letter to accompany a bouquet. The bouquet was addressed to one  _ Loon Rhouj, Warrior of Light.  _ The flowers included therein had also been carefully deliberated upon. Musk roses, from the coldest peaks of the Western Highlands, to denote her charms. Pink tea roses from the Diadem, favored by knights, for kindness and admiration. A single red Ayzema rose, specially ordered. The centerpiece of the arrangement, and a confession besides. The rest of the flowers had been appropriately catered to highlight those three which Aymeric had deemed most important, and even Lucia, who cared not for delicate blooms or their symbolism, had conceded it was a lovely gesture, to say the least. 

There was a part of Aymeric that had of course wondered at the wisdom of giving flowers to one well acquainted with the practice of botany. Lucia had insisted that if anything, Loon would be  _ more  _ appreciative of a gift that reflected her talents outside of combat. 

“Tell me, Lucia,” Some days prior, they two had been the sole occupants of the Seat of the Lord Commander in the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly, “How does one profess their love in Garlemald?” 

Lucia had stiffened at the unexpected question, but her shoulders relaxed as she diligently pondered her answer. “Much like the Ishgardians, those who call the capitol of the Empire home know little else but war. One does not declare their love through word or gift, but through action or practical kindness. I would suggest inviting her to share another meal, but given your responsibilities, I cannot promise you would not be interrupted once again.” 

Aymeric had blushed, feeling the heat as far as the tips of his ears. “Indeed.” 

That Lucia should so easily have discerned the nature of his question did not come as a surprise, nor did he intend to cease speaking with her candidly. Regardless of his embarrassment, the suggestion was a worthy one to consider. He had some confidence he could do all that was in his power to secure one uninterrupted evening, bar a sudden emergency akin to the one that had before dashed his plans to make any sort of confession. 

Nonetheless, to issue the invitation…  _ He needed to write the godsdamned letter.  _

It was not the first time he had attempted to write to Loon. Since her adventures had taken her far from Ishgard, Aymeric had tried on some few occasions to send his regards by moogle. Long had he labored at the desk in his study at Borel Manor, until his cat (Reinette, named for the saint herself by the late Lady Borel) had become thoroughly tired of his aggrieved sighs and knocked over the inkwell he was using, rendering the paper he’d written upon entirely unusable. Divine intervention, as it were. 

Aymeric pictured her face in his mind with the utmost care. The charms of her pointed ears and striped cheeks, the way her eyes had sparkled in the light of Borel Manor the first time they had dined together. He tried out a few greetings, finally settling on the simplest, and put ink to paper at last.

_ Loon,  _ he wrote,  _ It is with immeasurable gratitude that I welcome you back to Ishgard. For not only your heroic actions, but your contributions to the restoration of the Firmament, I thank you.  _

Aymeric cringed. It was altogether too formal, and nowhere near his point. Still, he took a deep breath and pressed on. 

_ To speak of another matter entirely, I would remind you of an event that is certainly no more than a footnote in the chronicle of your exceptional deeds. For my part, it has been the cause of no little distress. If you would cast your mind’s eye back, to a time when you yet called Fortemps Manor home, you may recall receiving from me an invitation to dine at my estate. Our engagement was cut short, which I have long lamented, but mistake not my meaning–– I do not blame in the slightest your fellow Scion for her incapacitation. The fault is mine own for the presumption that all had been settled.  _

There. At last, he was making some progress. But now came the part which was most important. 

_ I should like to right this wrong, with your permission. If you would be so kind as to join me at Borel Manor upon the date and time included in this writing, I shall be beyond delighted to treat you to a do-over evening of fine dining and refreshment. Fury willing, this attempt shall brook no interruption.  _

_ As a testament to both my thanks and a token of my anticipation for our upcoming social engagement, I offer this bouquet of blooms from both near to Ishgard and beyond. All meanings that may be divined therein are intentional, and may be discussed over dinner–– _

Aymeric crossed out the last line he had written, rather aggressively. Seven hells, she was a friend, not a partner in debate in the House of Lords!

_ As a botanist of some renown yourself, I am certain you are familiar with our flora. Nonetheless, I do hope my selection is to your liking.  _

_ Yours sincerely, _

_ Aymeric de Borel _

He did not include his full title, even though his wrist itched from the compulsion of habit. Aymeric let out a long breath, letting the tension ease from his shoulders as he re-read what he had written. It was not his best work, but what mattered most was that it was on paper, complete, and postable. 

Aymeric had set about his work in the early hours of the chill Ishgardian morning, a cup of syrup-sweetened tea and the delivery instructions for the bouquet beside him. He had always been something of an early-riser, a habit any Temple Knight did well to cultivate, but since his responsibilities had increased he had come to enjoy the quiet even moreso. To be alone with naught but his thoughts and the chill of the air was a rare respite from the demands of his office, and allowed Aymeric the time to idly imagine how his letter might be received. He could not, howevermuch he might have wished to, allow himself to be so preoccupied during working hours. Oh, but he did so dearly hope that Loon would like the gift…

Aymeric steepled his fingers upon his desk, lay his forehead upon them, and sighed.

***

Aymeric had posted his letter as immediately as he had managed, and the First Commander had correctly deduced the cause of his more-frequent-than-average pacing whilst they attended to their duties at the Congregation. She had assured him that he had no cause for such worry and urged him to channel such restless energy towards his duties rather than his fears. She was right, of course, Aymeric had conceded as much, and together the two of them had managed to devise training regimens and joint maneuvers for the Temple Knights for the next two moons. It was enough, in fact, that Lucia had encouraged Aymeric to check with the closest postmoogle for a reply from Loon, and she would finish what few tasks needed attending ere the day was over. She had practically herded him out of the office, even for all of Aymeric’s protestations that he was more than willing to work. 

“Lord Commander, if I may speak plain,” Lucia had not waited for Aymeric to grant her permission, though she had never needed it, “There is no proper substitute for experience, and I cannot rightly recall the last evening upon which you did not leave this office well after your hours. Take this chance to order your affairs, and do not thank me for it.” 

Aymeric could not begrudge Lucia’s well-made point. Still, he dawdled on his way to the Pillars, making polite inquiries around the Brume regarding the status of the Firmament’s reconstruction and the latest batch of Gibrillont’s mulled wine (the last round had been better, and the tavern proprietor had insisted Aymeric not take a bottle for the sake of his good taste). Finally, past the statues of the Last Vigil and the houses Hallienarte and Fortemps, he found the furry mail carrier's preferred location to idle about in the streets of Ishgard. 

There was, of course, no letter. It had been less than a day, for the Fury’s sake. 

… But he took a detour the following morning, and was well rewarded for it. A reply from Loon, thanking him for the flowers and confirming that she would see him in a week’s time at the date he had provided in his writing. Aymeric had read it twice, and then a third time, checking to see if she had mentioned aught of the meaning behind the flowers. There was nary a word about the rose. For a moment he wished he had not simply dictated the contents of the bouquet and had actually seen it. Mayhaps, in his hurry to stuff the gift with meaning, that which he had most wanted to say had been lost. He expressed as much to Lucia, who chided him for waxing poetic over a gift already sent.

As the date of the dinner approached, Lucia had grown increasingly more impatient with Aymeric’s questions, though in her defense he had been asking them with a frequency that had earned the ire twice-over. Ser Handeloup had not been particularly helpful either, as his was a love affair long in the making. Estinien was, of course, somewhere indisposed, but Aymeric could not help but wonder what his wayward friend would have to say on the matter.  _ “Why in the seven hells are you asking me?” _ most likely. 

Aymeric planned every detail with meticulous care. He could not very well provide the entirety of the evening’s menu himself, as much as he would have liked to. Still, he could afford to be particular about the ingredients and dishes. Aymeric had gone as far as to consult the former Count Edmont de Fortemps regarding desserts, and had been directed to the young Lord Emmannelain, who was especially fond of pastries and had been more than eager to make several recommendations, provided Aymeric supplied him with the reason for his asking. 

Aymeric had faltered. Telling Emmannelain that he was to have a private dinner with the Warrior of Light was as good as proclaiming his love for her to the whole of Ishgard. He could not very well trust in the young lord’s discretion; his appointment to overseeing Camp Dragonhead had not dulled Emmannelain’s appetite for gossip. But if he did not specify with whom he would be dining, the rumors would be all the worse. He had to take the chance and lead by example, with honesty. 

“If you must know,” Aymeric folded his arms, adopting a posture he hoped would dissuade any nonsense, “I have invited Loon Rhouj to dine at my estate as thanks for her services to Ishgard.” 

“Ah, why did you not just say it was the old girl from the start!” Emmannelain grinned, “I’ll have you know I am privy to  _ precisely _ the information you’re looking for.” 

Aymeric raised one eyebrow. “Is that so?” 

“Well,” Emmannelain cleared his throat, “It’s not as though she told me herself, but I did happen to spy her shopping at the Crozier once. As something of a connoisseur of all that is fine and sweet myself, I can assure you, she has excellent taste… And so do you, plainly.” He winked. 

“This is a private matter, Lord Emmannelain,” Aymeric kept his tone level, “I would advise your discretion.” 

Emmannelain slumped as though he’d taken an arrow to the chest. “This conversation has been the most interesting thing to happen in a moon and a half, and of course you would have me keep it a secret!” He sighed, “Very well! I shall direct you to the appropriate vendor, and that shall be the end of it. You have my word, and Honoroit will hold me to it.” Emmannelain gestured to his manservant, who nodded an assurance to Aymeric. 

“My thanks, Lord Emmannelain,” Aymeric gave a courteous half-bow, which Emmannelain returned in kind. 

The meal therefore secured in its entirety, Aymeric had aught to do but decide upon his dress for the occasion and wait. He could not very well dress in his armor, and yet he feared that donning his alpine coat would curse their meal to be interrupted once more. He settled upon the justaucorps coat that had become a popular fashion amongst the highborn, dyed in the blue of the Temple Knights. The bows and ruffles were not entirely to his liking, but he did not find it unflattering. 

Loon had written him another letter but a few days before she was to arrive in Ishgard, informing him that she was in Idyllshire, and would be making her way to the city through the Western Highlands of Coerthas. It was an altogether endearing letter. Loon had mentioned the plants she was tending in the vicinity, as well as her delight at seeing the goblins once more, as she had not for some time. Aymeric had consulted an almanac of beast tribes to confirm he was picturing the same creatures that Loon had mentioned. Indeed, he could find no other mention save that of the masked, bow-legged kind. And yet this brought a smile to his lips in all swiftness. Truly, it was as Emmannelain had said: she was a woman of taste. 

By the Fury, he was excited to see her. 

Aymeric awoke as early as he was accustomed, practically buzzing with anticipation. He would attend his meeting with the House of Lords and Commons, consult with Lucia on what within the congregation needed his attention and like as not have her shoo him from his office, and then he would dress and ready himself for dinner, and personally escort Loon to Borel Manor. 

Reviewing these responsibilities, Aymeric sipped as his tea. He’d oversweetened it. 

***

Loon stood near the aetheryte shard of the Last Vigil, the evening sun bouncing squares of light from the glasses upon her nose. Her ears perked up to attention as Aymeric crossed the stairs down to meet her, his boots tapping against the stone tiles. She smiled as he approached, and Aymeric’s heart seemed to take it as a cue to make a most urgent escape from his chest. 

He greeted her with a bow. “Full glad am I to see you returned to Ishgard, and gladder still that you accepted my invitation.” 

“I’d never say no to a fine meal and better company, you know.” Loon surreptitiously adjusted the ruffles of her dress collar, “Besides, it’s been too long. Did you get my second letter?” She looked at him with expectant blue-green eyes.

“About the goblins?” 

Loon nodded. “About the goblins.” 

“That I did, though we need not discuss it in the cold.” Aymeric gestured up the street, “May I escort you to the manor?” Aymeric’s heart was still running like a knight from dragonfire. He did not even think to offer his arm, or anything of the sort. 

Loon’s mouth formed an “o.” If Aymeric wasn’t mistaken, there was some color in her cheeks. It must have been the chill of the Ishgardian weather. 

“Yes, you’re right,” she said, “We shall.” With that, Loon marched ahead, right past Aymeric. 

His stride was rather longer than hers, so he did not have to make considerable effort to catch up. It was not the stroll he had anticipated, with some idle conversation on the way, but Aymeric supposed that was his own fault for suggesting they continue their conversation inside. A servant of the house welcomed them at the door, and Aymeric motioned for Loon to go first. 

The good lady Reinette herself greeted them at the threshold, in her full orange-furred glory. Loon looked down at the cat, then back up at Aymeric. “I did not know you had a cat,” she said. 

“She is mine only by inheritance,” Aymeric watched as Reinette wound her way around one of Loon’s legs, “I do not believe she considers herself beholden to anyone.” 

Loon lowered a hand for Reinette to sniff. The cat pressed her head against the knuckles of the extended hand without so much as a second of hesitation, much to Aymeric’s surprise. Having fulfilled her expectations of petting, Reinette shook out her voluptuous coat and trotted down the hall. 

Loon must have noted Aymeric’s surprise, as she looked at him after dusting some stray orange hairs from the bottom of her skirt. “Does she have a name?” 

“Reinette,” Aymeric said, “Though usually she is rather less than saintly.”

Loon had laughed at that, and Aymeric felt fondness swell in his chest with such intensity that he could not look directly at her for fear it would spill over onto his expression. 

They walked from the foyer to the dining room, where just as before a selection of culinary fineries had been laid before them. Aymeric sat across the table from Loon, listening with rapt attention as she described her travels to an entirely distinct world from their own. As she spoke, he wished rather selfishly that he had asked her to stay longer when she had been brought from the field at the Ghimlyt dark to a sickbed in Ishgard. Her trials and tribulations seemed innumerable, and yet here she was. His love for her had first come from admiration of her deeds and character, and that she should choose to favor him with an entire evening of her time was naught less than remarkable. 

Dinner concluded, the plates were cleared away in preparation of tea and desserts. Aymeric was relieved they had not yet been interrupted, and that he could, at last, see if Emmannelain’s gathered intelligence had been correct after all. 

Loon’s eyes had glittered as bright as gemstones when the dessert plates arrived. She made as if to pounce on the delicate cake before her, but in the last instant looked in Aymeric’s direction and instead took a single dainty bite. 

“Please,” Aymeric smiled, “Do not restrain yourself on my behalf. I was informed that you were particularly fond of this patissier, and I may have purchased more dessert than was strictly necessary for a single meal.” 

Before Loon had a chance to respond, Aymeric’s manservant opened the door to the dining room. “My Lord,” he said, “You’ve an urgent message.” 

Aymeric stood from his chair, a thousand curses upon his tongue. It had not even mattered that he had chosen a different coat. He gave Loon an apologetic look and insisted she continue to eat without him. 

At the Manor gate stood a boy not more than 16 summers old, and clearly out of breath. He wore the clothes of a delivery boy, and a patch with the flag of Ul’Dah adorned the upper sleeve of his jacket. 

“What is your message? I would encourage you to be quick about it.” Aymeric’s tone had veered slightly from business-like into betraying his frustration. 

The delivery boy looked up at him, wide-eyed. “A thousand pardons, sir, I only come in such a hurry ‘cause we botched the delivery ‘n’ all.” 

Aymeric frowned. “To what are you referring?”

“Your missing flower, sir, I’ve got it right here,” the boy dug around his satchel, finally removing what he held in Aymeric’s direction. 

_ A single Ayzema rose.  _ Wrapped in parchment. The flower had clearly suffered for the haste with which it had been carried. 

Thoughts raced through Aymeric’s mind at a speed he could ill contend with, standing in the cold of his doorway. He took the rose and instructed his manservant to pay the porter accordingly, then strode back inside at a brisk pace. 

Loon had finished her dessert but was gazing longingly at the piece on Aymeric’s plate when he returned. He pushed the plate across the table to her. 

Loon motioned to herself with a puzzled expression. “Really?”

Aymeric made a dismissive motion. “By all means.” 

He sat back down across from her, holding the parchment-wrapped rose. “Loon,” he began, “When you first responded to my invitation, I was overjoyed. Even moreso given that you enjoyed the gift with which my writing was included. However, at the time, there was aught that puzzled me.” 

“What would that be?” 

“While I did personally select each bloom to be included, there was one in particular which I had hoped to be the focus of the entire arrangement. That you did not mention it was of some surprise to me, until I learned but a moment ago that it had never been delivered.” He placed the rose on the table between them. “And the…” Aymeric’s voice caught in his throat, “The meaning of this flower was of critical importance, you see.” 

Loon set her fork down on her plate. She reached for the flower, touching the wilted edges of its petals. She looked at Aymeric, and he could see the blush in her cheeks just as well as he could feel it in his own. 

“I had wished to express to you,” Aymeric felt as though he were taking a leap of faith with each word, his heart running twice as quickly as a horsebird, “My most ardent affection and admiration. By that I mean, Loon Rhouj… That I am in love with you. However!” he hurried to speak but a little more before his will was exhausted, “I understand entirely if you do not feel the same. There is much and more that you have seen, as evidenced by what you described but mere moments earlier and I…” He trailed off, uncharacteristically. But he could not find it within himself to continue speaking. 

Loon held the rose in both hands, looking at it for a long while in silence without meeting Aymeric’s gaze. “Do you… like roses, Aymeric?” 

He nodded sheepishly. 

“I could grow one for you, you know,” She looked at him, and he could not help but notice the fur on her ears was rather more puffed out than usual. “If you can use a flower to declare your feelings, I don’t see why I can’t.”

“Which is to say that I  _ do  _ feel the same.” 

For the fourth time in his life, Aymeric was at a loss for words. 


End file.
